


the sweet, the having

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [29]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cunnilingus, Easier in the Fade, F/M, Fade Sex, Making Out, Post-Break Up, Reunions, Solas: I am a very ethical person Also Solas: Join My Big Mistake Party, maybe it's Solas maybe it's a Desire demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22059082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: She is suddenly unsure. If she speaks, if she moves, he might stop. He might go, and she will have broken whatever brought him to her, into her. Pressed his lips to the peach in her hand. Brought his lips to hers.
Relationships: Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel | Solas/Original Female Character(s), Fen'Harel/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age)
Series: False Fruit [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Kudos: 14





	the sweet, the having

**“The wet, the swollen, the light, the seeing. / The picking, the washing, the cutting, the quartering. / The sweet, the having.” (Peach, Catie Rosemurgy, The Stranger Manual)**

\--

She opens her eyes.

He is below her, he is beneath her, and part of him — Lips? Fingers? Tongue? — pulls strange and bright and like soft fabric against her cleft and she tries not to think, as if desperately blocking out her thoughts will somehow make him continue. She does not want him to pull back, as he has so often before. She does not want to see his thoughts working behind his eyes. She does not want him to straighten, proper, distant, and stiffly leave her on the cold stone floor.

He _moans_ between her thighs. This is a sound she has not heard from him before. She achieves that blankness of mind she craves — replaying this sound of him when he brings his lips flush to her cunt over and over in her mind. And she is only brought back to herself when heat pulses in a fine corkscrew up her stomach and through her heart.

When his hands press against her, they leave a sticky trail of peach-juice up her thighs. She strokes one of his knuckles, stained with paint and the juice of their shared indulgence — the peach she had secreted down here. She closes her eyes again, head tilting back. Determined not to wonder at this sudden abandon, this fury of hunger within him that has lowered her to the floor in the wash of sun pale through the window, that has her soft cries gasping off the walls of the armory.

He is testing paths within her that are, unfortunately, not all gratifying. She is quiet for many minutes, listening to his breaths mount and shift; listening to herself — the places of herself that she has often moved into frenzied, pulsing heat — slip and squelch beneath his eager, plying touch. He ruts his wanderings against her. Finally, he finds a rhythm, a pressure in his tongue, that is good, and she watches time scatter in the lint-dust shifting lazily in the air.

She is too afraid to whisper, “More.” And then this disturbs her. She is suddenly unsure. If she speaks, if she moves, he might stop. He might go, and she will have broken whatever brought him to her, into her. Pressed his lips to the peach in her hand. Brought his lips to hers. Her hand on his cheekbone. She touched the scar above his eye. She feels like she is in a Keeper’s story, trapped in the paths Beyond, lured by wisps and hunted by wolves. If she speaks she will break whatever spell weaves his tongue insatiable at her folds, whatever strokes his fingers up within her — _deep_ , and he’s found something inside her that shivers to be known.

But a wrong move from her, and this might end. Is it, then… a dream? She presses her eyes shut tight against the thought, even as he shifts between her legs and one of his ears grazes her inner thigh and she wants to comb her fingers over his head and behind his neck and _thrust_. Is this room, this moment, this man — all phantom? Born out of night and Fade and memories of gold light winking off the swords and metal helms, arranged so neatly on the shelves? And, if she realizes, if she becomes aware ——

No, she is firm. No. Not yet.

He has some way of knowing that this is good, that he has struck within her. Some way of twisting the air around her to feel lighter, so that she is buoyed in repose. He becomes less capable, less elegant as her wetness becomes a messy, slippery stream that he struggles to find traction within. He pulls back — _no_ — and touches the back of his wrist to his mouth. And his eyes when they look down at her are heavy. When he breathes in, his whole upper body tilts back, he raises the fingers that are smeared with peach juice and her own spend to his mouth, sucking with what she could mistake for rapture as he burrows one hand under her thigh. His touch is surprisingly rough when he grasps her beneath her rear and drags her, one-handed, closer to him across the stones. She shivers to have a new cold stone under her back.  
He is settled beneath her legs, now. She looks at him; looks down at the bulge in his lap. When her gaze flicks up again to see, quickly, if he means to join with her, he is looking away, his hands grazing idly over her thighs but his gaze questing for something within the room.

“Solas…?” She asks, a little afraid that this is the end. That by speaking, she’ll wake herself up in her bed in Skyhold.

But he only glances down at her, smile lazy — and satisfaction dispelling, for once, the tight reminders of loneliness from his eyes.

“May I lift you?” He asks, and after a moment she nods, putting out her arms. He lifts her and carries her to the bench set in the middle of the armory. Places her down gently.

He kneels before her, places a supportive hand at her back. He wraps first her left, then her right leg up over his shoulders. Her ankles cross behind his back.

“Stunning,” he observes, his breath hot and close to her sex, and then he sucks her into his mouth — her clit, and the mound around it, taking it all in an ambitious mouthful. He groans again, rumbling around her. And this sound is so aggressive for him — so unambiguous and _sensual_. Her whole body clenches and trembles in response.

The wooden bench clacks as an uneven leg drums the stone floor. Now he is not slow, or gentle, or thoughtful: he feasts like an animal at the kill. Muzzles against her, bites her clit between his teeth, licks out urgently. He revisits the pressures and circling patterns that make her whimper and whine, and then, finally, because even if it wakes her up she cannot keep from crying out, make her moan his name.

“ _Solas_ ,” she invokes, trying to convince herself that this could be real. That the sugary spill of fruit drying on her thighs, that the heat he tightens within her, that the swollen cock she reaches down and lightly strokes, could all be hot and true and hers in the waking realm. And then she groans, eyes squeezed shut, because she feels how he has taken his cock in hand and is palming himself while he holds her hips to his face, fucking her voraciously with his mouth as he strokes his erection. He tips his hips forward at her questing touch, and she comes from both the realization of how wild he’s become in the _wanting_ of her, and in the suddenly-avid press of his mouth on her sex: her crest is violent and bucking, his mouth sweeping hard on her sex, her release spiraling up from her core and rushing to her head and blacking out the world behind a wax helm of metamorphoses and night sky.

Her feet are cold.

She opens her eyes.


End file.
